Standing in line at the pharmacy, I smoothed my faux fur coat and gripped the handle of my handbag tighter. At the till, I nudged the pregnancy test across the counter with my left hand. ‘Pretty ring,’ said the cashier – responding exactly how I wanted her to. I needed her to know I was married; that I was old enough, mature enough and financially stable enough to be worthy of motherhood.
There’s a reason I was desperately seeking the approval of a stranger. The last time I bought a pregnancy test was 25 years ago. I say bought, I never made it into the pharmacy. Instead, I hid in my boyfriend’s car while he went in to buy it. I was 17, but having drawn the short straw on puberty glow-ups, I looked about 15. I couldn’t face the judgement – the kind rife in my small Shropshire town, where everyone knows each other’s business. And I couldn’t bear the idea of my mum – at home, none the wiser – knowing mine.
I’ve taken a pregnancy test twice. Both times, it was positive. But while much has changed about pregnancy and childbirth in the years between, one thing hasn’t. As a 17-year-old college student, I was branded a ‘chav’; just another teenage mother; a baby having a baby. Now, aged 43, I’m a geriatric mother; crazy for wanting to do it all over again – ‘at my age’. While I’m a different person from the one I was two decades ago, discrimination for being the ‘wrong age’ for motherhood still stings just as sharply.
I want to know why we judge women so harshly for their decisions around motherhood; and to understand the repercussions for those on the receiving end. Above all, I hope my story challenges preconceptions and encourages us to see all pregnant women for the mothers they are, as opposed to the mothers we think they are.
Pregnant pause
It was 1996 when I missed my first period. I was studying social science at a college and picking up shifts at the local McDonald’s for pocket money. Overwhelmed by the many options of adulthood, I’d decided to buy myself some time by enrolling at college and joining the army cadets until I worked out exactly what it was I actually wanted to do with my life.
It was my boyfriend who first used the ‘P’ word. We met at a pub and had been dating for six months, and while I couldn’t get a positive word about him from a single friend or family member, I didn’t care. He was 22 and he made me laugh. After that memorable trip to the pharmacy, I shut myself in the bathroom at home to take the test.
I thought back to all my friends’ pregnancy scares – their faces light with relief as they recounted the moment they saw the line. Sure, I’d been more tired than usual; I’d had unbearable headaches, too. But I expected my story to end like all of theirs. Instead, two lines appeared in the test’s tiny window and my life changed with the flush of a toilet.
‘Are you going to keep it?’ was the default response, when I shared the news with friends and family. Closely followed by, ‘You’re ruining your life.’ Many people around me expected – wanted – me to have an abortion, but I knew instantly that I wanted this baby; that no matter how difficult it would be, I would try to make it work.
But if I wanted it to be a happy time, no one was in the mood to celebrate. I moved into my boyfriend’s rented house while my mum was at work one day, phoning her afterwards to explain why. I’d been terrified to tell her, but she just told me that I didn’t have to get married if I didn’t want to. The only person to offer me empathy was one of my teachers. She held me back one day to give me a Moses basket, telling me she thought I’d be a great mum. I was touched by the gift, although I couldn’t help but feel sad that I hadn’t received the same kindness from people close to me.
My baby arrived at 3 pm on a Wednesday in March; I named her Beth. My early memories of being a mum can be summed up in a word: surreal. I’d dropped out of college in the latter stages of pregnancy when fatigue made coursework impossible. It meant that in a matter of weeks, I’d gone from being at college with my friends to being responsible for a tiny human. But I embraced this new life, chronicling every detail and building boxes of keepsakes.
It wasn’t easy; in fact, it was impossibly hard at times. My relationship with Beth’s father broke down, and by the time she was a toddler, I was raising Beth as a single mother. But in some ways, being a teenager turned out to be a parenting advantage, especially when my daughter became one herself. With just 17 years between us, I had an insight into her mindset and interests that other mothers lacked. I knew the perils of dating in the 2000s; I knew the drugs people were taking; I knew the pubs that were safe to drink in and the ones to avoid at all costs. In a way, Beth and I grew up alongside each other.
Testing times
The desire to have another baby crept up slowly. Beth was at uni when, at a party, I met my future husband. We instantly knew we wanted to be a couple. Seven months later we moved in together, blending our families and parenting his four children and my daughter between us. Three years later, we got married.
It was watching my husband raise his children with care that made me want to share the experience with him, but we’d all but given up trying. I was 40 when a consultant told me that my fallopian tubes were as twisted and blocked as an old hosepipe. He suggested that I have them removed with the same tone you’d use to ask your partner to pick up some milk on their way home from work. But I pleaded with him to keep them. ‘They won’t work,’ he insisted. ‘They’ll work better inside me than not,’ I replied.
But it seemed the consultant was right, and after a few years of trying to conceive, I shelved that dream and pursued others. I moved up the ladder at work and started a diet consultancy side hustle. I reminded myself that I had both a daughter and much-loved stepchildren. I made peace with not having another baby. Then my periods stopped.
If I’d known what the result would be, I might have taken the test with a bit more ceremony. Instead, I weed into an old Chinese takeaway pot and popped the three strips from the test inside. While all three presented two blue lines, it took another four tests for the news to sink in. ‘You’ll need to come in immediately because of your condition,’ the doctor insisted over the phone. My condition? Being 43 and pregnant.
Society has an idea of what a mother should look like, and let me tell you, it isn’t me; it isn’t me now, it wasn’t me then. Both pregnancies have confirmed what I’ve long suspected about motherhood; that pregnant bodies – and the reproductive behaviour that goes with them – are under scrutiny so severe, that they’re practically seen as public property.
I felt the hot glare of other people’s opinions when aged 21, I walked down the street with my toddler; when I brought her to uni lectures because I couldn’t find a babysitter; when, in response to questions about her father, I had to say that he wasn’t around.
To find out why we judge women so harshly when they don’t subscribe to our ideals of the ‘perfect’ pregnancy, I put in a call to Zaina Mahmoud. A research associate at London Women’s Clinic – a private reproductive healthcare clinic on London’s Harley Street – Mahmoud specialises in pregnancy and sociology. ‘While we are moving away from strict adherence to the nuclear family model, we do still hold on to certain traits deemed desirable for mothers, especially around age,’ she tells me.
This desirability, she explains, is deeply entrenched in our culture – spoon-fed via cultural references from cradle to grave, not least in the media we consume. Growing up, almost every film I watched featured a married, middle-class mother in her twenties or thirties, while mothers like me were nowhere to be seen. When we were, we were vilified. Mahmoud points to media portrayals of teenage mums, all too often accompanied by terms such as ‘pram face’ and ‘chav’ – terms I’m incredibly familiar with.
‘It equates to a scenario in which anyone who falls outside of this narrow stereotype of pregnancy – be that because they’re transgender, a surrogate or a teenager are seen as somehow “abnormal”,’ adds Mahmoud. And this ‘abnormality’ affects the way they’re perceived.
In the case of teenage pregnancies, they’re often viewed as side effects of bad judgement, promiscuous behaviour and/or poor life choices. As a result, teenage mothers are more likely to be seen as unable or unqualified to meet their children’s needs. One study by researchers from the University of Huddersfield found that this stigma is so widespread that 75% of single parents have experienced it.
Shame game
Unsurprisingly, the stigmatisation has consequences. ‘[In pregnancy] you’re already more vulnerable to shame,’ says Dr Kalanit Ben-Ari, a psychologist and therapist, referring to the toll that pregnancy takes on your body and mind. ‘Add societal pressures and judgements from peers related to your age and you’re bound to suffer negative psychological consequences.’ The science supports this. Research published in 2019 found that teen mothers have an increased risk of depression, being twice as likely to suffer from it compared with mothers aged 21 and over.
Such statistics aren’t down to social stigma alone, though. Dr Ben-Ari points out that women without resources and support are more likely to suffer – in a way that affects both their mental health and their ability to be a confident parent. This is concerning, as research from the International Journal For Early Childhood has found that not feeling competent in your parenting role – because of prejudice or self-stigma – can cause parents to struggle with bonding and be less engaged in their child’s learning and development.
Given how isolated I felt during my first pregnancy, I was lucky this wasn’t the case – I bonded with Beth easily. Being her mum pushed me into survival mode; everything I did – finding us a council house, working three jobs, finding a university with childcare nearby – was all to be a good mum. But having no cultural references made it hard to see myself as a mother. Even after I gave birth, being seen as ‘chavvy’ had a big impact on my self-worth. I second-guessed every decision I made for Beth and had to suppress thoughts that I couldn’t do it. Only now that I’m pregnant again do I realise I’ve been living with the shame of teenage motherhood for 25 years.
Judgement day
One thing I do have this time around is perspective. I know that there’s no ‘right time’ to have a baby. How we cope with motherhood comes down to personality, not timing. I wasn’t a bad mother as a teenager; I was a brave one. When I look back on the way people reacted to my first pregnancy, I judge them. And while they might have been right about certain things – no, my teenage boyfriend didn’t stick around – that shouldn’t have mattered. I deserved compassion, not derision.
When I told my friends and family about my current pregnancy, most were happy. I even got cards, which I didn’t receive last time. Mostly, people have asked how my 25-year-old daughter has taken the news, assuming she’s finding it difficult. But she’s just pleased I’m having the baby I so desperately wanted.
By the time you read this, my son will be three months old and sleeping (or not) in his nursery, which we’ve decorated with a safari theme. Instead of wondering where I’m going to live or whether my friends will ever speak to me again, my problems are best described as ‘first world’. (How will I ever survive without pâté?) But in some ways, pregnancy feels the same. I’m every bit as tired and nauseous as I was the first time, every bit as excited, too. Because, while the fear is real, I know I can do this. I know I can raise a baby in the face of scrutiny. After all, I’ve done it before.
Pregnancy by numbers
- 30.7 - The average age women have their first child in the UK
- 2 - The average age gap in years between children
- 48% - The percentage of women who don’t have children by the age of 30
- 3.4% - The percentage of pregnancies that occur in women over 40
- 1/3 - The number of couples in the UK who conceive a second child within 18 months of their first child being born
- 1 in 5 - the number of births in the UK to women over the age of 35
Beth Ashley is author of Sluts: The truth about slutshaming and what we can do to fight it (£14.99, Penguin).
